


Only I Have Proved Me Wrong

by PhosphorescentBlue



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:23:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6188986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhosphorescentBlue/pseuds/PhosphorescentBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His throat and eyes burn at her words. He nods sharply, unsure of what to do. So he tries for honesty.  “I forgave you a long time ago.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only I Have Proved Me Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is set who-knows-how-far in the future, because everything is just awful right now. A lot of this turned into me trying to acknowledge some weird omissions in canon. Y’know, like maybe how Clarke and Bellamy are feeling after he handcuffed her to a table because his character inexplicably (outside of Twitter) became a Pike flunky. That sorta thing.
> 
> Also, I have not written people doing the sex in eons. This could be painful. Sorry.
> 
> Title from Kendall Payne’s “Scratch”. Which is a Clarke/Bellamy song like whoa.

They haven’t spoken much. What’s there to say? The hurt and betrayal they’ve dealt upon one another is a stellar way to kill any conversation before it could possibly start. 

Instead, the last two months have been a study of avoidance. It is a perfected art of wheeling around and heading off in another direction when he sees her walking his way; of pretending to be engrossed in maps or charts when she notices he’s entered a room.

No, all is not well between Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin. They know it. Everyone around them knows it. What’s worse is that all parties have given up trying to repair their painful stalemate. Rather than having to choose sides or remain neutral, their friends have pulled back. Octavia has left the camp, Raven, Monty, and Jasper are dealing with their own traumas. Miller has stuck close to Monty, and Bellamy isn’t sure he’d like to hear his friends’ low opinion of him at the moment.

It’s this isolation and a need for a quiet place to feed his demons that takes Bellamy to the dropship. The struggling sun of an approaching spring filters through the trees, their long shadows creating bars on the ground. Probably he’s always had a flair for the dramatic, for the exposition, but he sees a prison in those shadows. One of his own making.

When he hears someone noisily approaching, he doesn’t startle. If it were anyone other than an Arker, he’d not even know they were there until it was too late. But when he turns right as Clarke stumbles into the ship’s clearing, everything in him tenses.

Her cheeks and nose are red from the crisp air. When she sees him watching her, her shoulders hunch. She crosses her arms in front of her and he can see her knuckles are cold and wind-chapped, too. They’ve never had to worry about life outside of climate-regulated hull before. The winter had been brutal, and even has the days get longer, everyone still is dismayed to find frost on the ground every morning.

Bellamy and Clarke stand some ten feet apart, staring at each other wordlessly. His throat aches to speak, if he only had an idea of what to say, where to start.

In the end, she beats him to it.

“I didn’t know anyone would be here. I’ll just….” She trails off and starts to turn around, but his voice stops her.

“Why’d you come?” His voice shakes and he chides himself. They’ve not spoken alone in months and these first words to her are fraught with nerves, anger, and sadness.

Cautiously, she faces him again. “I wanted to see—I’ve not been here in a long time.” Her eyes dart around, seeking any reason not to meet his. “You?”

“Probably same reason as you,” he says, not sure of his own motivation.

Tentatively, Clarke edges closer to the dropship, closer to Bellamy. “It looks smaller.”

“Hard to believe it fit one hundred kids.”

“101,” she corrects.

Actions: consequences. He came to earth, now he has to live with what he brought with him. “Yeah. Damn stowaways.”

She turns her head, obviously trying to decide if he’s joking. He isn’t sure, because he’s only stealing glances at her from the corner of his eye, but he thinks she cracks a split-second smile.

She shuffles her feet, returning her gaze to the dropship. “D’you ever wonder what would happen if the Ark had never come down? If we—the Delinquents—were still living here?”

Bellamy sighs. “Mount Weather was the most inevitable part of what’s happened to us. Maybe if we could have gotten to the seaside earlier. Otherwise? We’d all be dead.” 

Saying it aloud helps him somehow, helps him acknowledge some small truth he’d not been able to speak until now.

She hesitates. “Would you—could you do it again?” Her eyes have not moved back to him, but he can see she’s holding her breath for an answer.

He licks his dry lips, tries to answer as honestly as he is able. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

Her whisper is almost lost to the encroaching darkness. “Me, either.”

The forest rustles behind them, just the wind shooing away winter and welcoming the night. Bellamy knows they should head back to camp. Already, they’ll make most of their journey in the dark. But still, they stand side by side in front of the skeleton of their deliverance to Earth.

Minutes pass before he speaks again. In the time leading up to it, he didn’t realize he was building up his nerve until the words escape.

“How are you, Clarke?”

She sucks in a quick breath. And then she stands silent, considering his question. “I’m okay. I’m doing okay, I guess.” Another second passes. “Are you okay, Bellamy?”

He can think of every reason why her question makes him want to cry. Somehow, he doesn’t, though. “I’ve been better,” is all he can admit. He clears his throat and shoves his hands into his coat pockets, staring at the ground.

Bellamy knows the moment Clarke moves, though he only lifts his head when she comes to stop directly in front of him.

They stare at each other, and his chest aches as she watches him steadily before she moves into him, pushing her arms between his and winding them around his waist. He doesn’t hesitate to pull his hands back out of his pockets to wrap himself around her.

It feels right. It feels like an absolution, though they both have too much they still need to talk about.  For now, though, he is content to clench his eyes shut. When she presses her face into his chest, he lowers his to the crown of her head, smelling the cold air on her and not wanting the moment to end.

Eventually, it does, but not before the sun has dipped below the mountains, leaving behind a pink and navy sky. Clarke steps back, glancing around the darkness in surprise.

“Shit. We should have headed back a long time ago. I didn’t bring a flashlight. You?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “No rations, either.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Feel like hunting?”

“Not particularly.”

“Me either. We’ve been hungry before. We probably should move into the dropship eventually, but I want to build a fire.” She sets off, walking around the ship’s hulking mass. Just before she moves out of sight, she turns back to him. “Coming?”

He nods wordlessly and follows.

Though very little of their wall survived the war with the Grounders, a small remnant stands, likely braced by a copse of trees just beyond it. By the time he catches up with her, Clarke has found an ideal spot in front of it and is clearing away underbrush and metal scraps for an impromptu fireplace.

Quickly falling back into a old routine, Bellamy begins gathering dried branches, doubling back to duck into the ship to grab a flint lighter that they’d kept stored next to the door on his way back.  When he returns to Clarke, she smiles gratefully when she sees his offerings.

Once they have the kindling lit and have added a couple of heavier branches, they crab walk back a few feet to lean against the wall. Bellamy worries his lip, fearing that they’ll return to their earlier awkwardness.  Desperately, he casts around his mind for a topic.

“Raven told me about your plans to build cabins,” she says before he can panic and offer an inane observation about the weather.

Grateful, he nods. “We won’t have any done before the summer, but we have some ideas for how we can build strong ones and insulate them.”

“And you have people to do the building, right?” she grills him. “I’m not going to find out you’re working a full guard shift and then spending your downtime hauling lumber?”

Touched by her concern but reluctant to show it, he ducks his head and rubs his neck. “Oh yeah, yeah. We’ll have construction duty. I’m no hero.”

They both fall quiet at this. He’d been attempting a light-hearted tone, but the truth and irony of his words hit too close for comfort.

Clearing his throat, he grabs a handful of small, dried pinecones and tosses them one at a time into the crackling fire. He remembers the first fire they built on the ground, when even he had taken a break from hustling wristbands off of people and inviting girls into his tent to enjoy the way the small cones would pop and hiss as the flames consumed them.

Clarke startles him when she reaches over and grabs two of his pinecones, trying for a snicker when he almost pulls off an offended grunt.

“Sharing is caring,” she says dryly.

“If I’m guilty of anything, it’s of caring _too_ much,” he shoots back with false modesty, though, again, his faux-jocular words make his chest ache.

Clarke must notice the grimace that he can’t quite quell, because she sobers, turns to stare pensively at the fire for moment, and then carefully scoots a few inches closer to him. She does it slowly, like a person approaching a skittish horse.

Once she’s settled again, now only an inch away from him so he can feel the heat of her, she only begins speaking after a full minute has passed. “Sometimes, I feel like the only thing we can do for each other is offer forgiveness.”

“Clarke—”

“No, hear me out,” she insists. “Intellectually, I know it’s not true. Even my gut tells me that we work too well together for this to be a relationship based on making excuses for one another. But do we ever get to prove that?”

“We’ve not in a long time,” he sighs.

“Do you think we will get the chance now?”

It’s his turn to hold the silence for a while. “I hope so,” he says carefully. “We may be a good team. You’re still the person I trust most. But that means we’re really good at hurting each other, too.”

“I know. So are you to me. How do we stop with the hurting?”

He nearly stops himself from saying it, but he remembers that he needs to be honest. He tends to start wars when he stews too much. Drawing his legs up, he props his forearms on his knees, hangs his head forward, and finally allows the words out.

“It mostly happens when we’re separated.”

He watches her out of the corner of his eye, sees her nod ever so slightly. “Yeah,” she agrees quietly.

“Which is codependent as fuck,” he adds, angry with himself.

“It works both ways, Bellamy. I rely on you just as much as you rely on me. I make mistakes when we’re apart, too. But we can’t always be together. We just have to figure out how to do it healthily moving forward.”

He laughs bitterly. “This last one was definitely on me. I seem to remember you were the one trying to make peace with the clans.”

“And look where that got us,” she snaps. “I lost Lexa, the coalition went into meltdown, and Pike got control. I left you first and we didn’t get a chance to talk it through until everything had festered for three months.”

“I was weak.”

He watches as she rubs her face in frustration. “Everyone is weak in some way or other, Bell. You don’t have the market cornered on it. Things went to shit when Pike came along.” He nods listlessly as she continues. “And he was the worst type of weak. Because not only was he that, but he was also manipulative. He saw that you were hurting, that you were devastated about Gina and the Mountain, and he capitalized on it.”

Bellamy shakes his head sharply. “I made a choice. You left, an assassin got into the mountain and killed Gina and most of Farm Station and I decided it was entirely the Grounders’ fault. You’re arguing that there’s no self-determination.”

“I’m not,” she insists, voice rising to match his. “You made a mistake in trusting the wrong person based on the hurt you were feeling. It doesn’t make you faultless, but it makes it more understandable.”

All at once exhausted, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back to stare up at the peeking stars he fell from. “When do I become culpable, Clarke? What’s the limit?”

“When you decide you’re no longer a work in progress.”

He turns his head to look at her directly. “What do you mean?”

“You and I have done horrible things.” Her eyes are glassy. When she blinks, heavy tears drop onto her hands where they lay clasped in her lap. “We’ve trusted the wrong people, and we’ve hurt countless others because of it. But, Bellamy, I _have_ to believe that as long as we can admit our mistakes and not repeat them, then we can only get better. If I don’t have that, then I have nothing.”

Her words help somehow. They’re not a cure-all. He doesn’t feel like a great weight has been lifted. But maybe it feels like Clarke is back to sharing the load with him.

Something still troubles him, though. Whatever guilt he feels, he knows a lot of it leads back to his reliance on Clarke and—if what she says is true—her reliance on him.

“What about the next time you leave?”

“Bellamy—”

He shakes his head sharply. “I’m not saying you’ll run off. I’m saying we’re not attached at the hip. We have our own lives and we get separated because of what’s expected of us. How do I trust myself not to do it all again?”

Puffing her cheeks out on a gusty sigh, Clarke considers him. “You’re not a hair trigger. I’m not saying what you did with Pike was right. You know that, yourself. I am saying you reacted instinctively in extenuating, traumatic circumstances.”

“What about our every day lives isn’t extenuating?” he argues.

“Fair point, but we’re in a cease-fire with all of the clans now, even the Azgeda. I think it’s okay to start planning for peace, at least in the short-term.”

“And if we find ourselves at war again?”

“Then maybe you and I need to work on checking in with each other regularly, whether we’re together or apart. We obviously work better as a team. We shouldn’t take it for granted.” Her teeth dig into her lower lip, her only tell that she’s nervous about what she’s suggesting. As if Bellamy would balk at it.

Tentatively, he smiles at her. “Yeah. I think we can work on that.”

Her answering smile warms him in trenches of cold pain he’s carried around with him. It’s not nearly enough to exorcise all of his demons, but it certainly goes a long way. Remembering that Clarke understands him and empathizes with him dispels so much of the loneliness he’s carried since he agreed to follow Pike’s orders, and even before that.

They sit quietly for some time after that, listening to the fire crackle and night birds’ calls.

He doesn’t jump when Clarke leans her head on his shoulder, though every point where she rests against him becomes hyper-aware, while ever place on his body that has no contact to her itches to touch her.

Ah, yes. That.

Bellamy can’t quite pinpoint when he fell in love with her, or even when he acknowledged it.  He suspects it became real when he saw her for the first time in three months. The clutching in his belly, the fear that blinded him on catching his first glimpse of her while Roan dragged her along wasn’t mere concern for a friend.

He definitely knew he loved her when she shock-lashed him to escape after he’d handcuffed her to a chair.  As the bone-locking electricity hit him, his only thought was _, how could I do this to you?_ When he’d regained consciousness, he’d tried to dispel the relief that she’d gotten away, letting it war with what he thought should be his duty.

_How could I do this to you?_

“Clarke?” Off her _hmm_ of acknowledgement, he continues. “I’m so sorry for everything. For Lexa. For the ways you were alone. For the way I treated you when you came back to Arkadia the first time. For tricking you and taking you hostage. For not saying anything until now.”

“I already forgave you.”

“I still needed to say it.”

To his regret, she lifts her head and rises up to her knees. Confused, he watches as she shuffles around his leg, coming to a stop when she’s between his knees facing him. She settles back on her haunches and tentatively puts her hands on his wrists, thumbs stroking his pulse points.

Transfixed, he stares at her, hardly breathing.

“I forgive you. I’m sorry for so much, too,” she murmurs, tears welling in her eyes.

His throat and eyes burn at her words. He nods sharply, unsure of what to do. So he tries for honesty.

“I forgave you a long time ago.”

Her smiles is as hopeful as he’s ever seen it, even as her tears continue splash down her cheeks. When she leans forward to hug him, he’s ready for her. Their arms band around each other, and they both hold on with grips that might restrict the other’s airflow, if they were to pay attention to anything as trivial as breathing.

Sniffling, Clarke eventually pulls back, to Bellamy’s chagrin. He’s comforted, however, when she doesn’t remove herself from his grasp. Instead, she straightens slightly before leaning in again, this time to press a kiss to his forehead. She stays there nearly as long she remained in their embrace. He tamps down a shiver when her fingertips brush the sensitive skin just below his ears. He gets the impression that, should _he_ try to pull away, her hands are there to stop him. Instead, he just renews his tight hold on her.

Eventually, it must end. Before she can pull back fully, though, Bellamy decides something. This is the second time Clarke has kissed him; yet, he’s never touched his lips to her skin. The last thing he wants is for her to think it’s unwanted.

So he leans back in and kisses her cheek. He only realizes he’s caught the corner of her mouth with his when she lets out a shuddering sigh. Guilt and thrill war as her breath shakes across his lips. If she is offended by his poor aim, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she merely combs her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck and pushes her face a little closer to his.

And then something happens that he never could have hoped for. She turns her head so her lips are pressed directly to his.

Kissing Clarke is something he’s dreamt of more times than he can count. When it happens, when her chapped lips meet his, he freezes, unsure of how he should respond. In fact, his only reaction—beyond his small inhale of surprise—is his hands convulsing into a cramping grip of her jacket.

It’s only when her tongue darts out to trace the seam of his mouth, and he opens for her that he allows himself to relax into the kiss. Relax, and then get swept off by it.

They both breathe heavily through their noses as they refuse to pull away from each other. Their mouths move ardently, their tongues sliding wetly against each other.

Bellamy’s hand moves up under her jacket, his hand sweeping up and down over her thin shirt. He maps the topography of her back: the arcs of her shoulder blades, the divot of her spine, and dimples at its base, and back up again.

When she shuffles closer to press up against him, pushing him back against the wall so he’s relined with her sprawled over him in the cradle of his legs, he repeats the sweep of his hand, this time under her shirt.

It’s all the encouragement Clarke needs. He gives a small moan of protest when her lips leave his, but he sighs as she presses wet kisses to the corner of his mouth, his jaw, that same spot her fingers had brushed earlier, where his ear meets his neck. It makes his head drop back, and the cool air on his wet lips only makes him more aware of the heat of her, the inferno of her mouth on his skin.

His other hand snakes up under her shirt, and his fingers meet at the clasp of her bra. They fiddle there momentarily until—with a triumphant grunt—he unclasps it. Now his blunt nails scrape and knead at her back, rubbing at the indent caused by her bra band. At this, she whimpers and repeats the mapping of her mouth over his lips, jaw, and neck. Her hips roll against him as much as they can, and he gasps again at the flood of heat that coils where his cock is already hard, eager to rut against her.

Impatiently, he nuzzles her cheek until her lips return to his. They pant into each others mouths, still unwilling to pull away to catch their breath. When Clarke’s hands snake up inside his shirt to lightly scratch over his bare chest, catching his nipples as they go, his hips buck up against hers and he groans loudly.

This only encourages her to do it again, and he retaliates by skimming his hands back down her back, fingers dipping into her jeans and the waistband of her underwear to scratch his nails over the flair of her hips.

He glories in the sound he steals from her, and he is afraid his chest might burst. He’s touching and kissing and holding _Clarke_ , and it’s all he could want. And she wants him, too. She’s probably bruised him with the force of her hold on him, and—

All at once, he remembers. Lexa. The pain Clarke must have felt over her death. The heartbreak.

“Clarke,” he tries, his words muffled by her mouth against his. She gives a _hmm_ of response but doesn’t stop kissing him. Reluctantly, despite the pain in his chest, he turns his head and pulls back as much as he can, breaking his mouth away from her.

Her expression, flushed and kiss-stung though it is, might have made him laugh at any other time. She’s just so annoyed to be interrupted. But it’s too painful to be funny.

“Bellamy, what’s wrong?” she asks, trying to catch her breath. She stares at his lips and darts her tongue out to sweep over her own.

“Lexa,” is all he can manage.

Her eyes return to his. He expects her to be stricken, but instead, she shakes her head.

“I’ve mourned her. It hurt for so long. But I feel… I _know_ I can allow myself this now.”

He swallows and forces the words out. “I can’t just be someone to help you recover from her.”

“No, no, Bellamy. Never that,” she insists, reaching up to cup his face. Though he wishes he weren’t compelled to, he allows his eyes to meet hers. “You’d never be ‘just someone’ to me. And Lexa is gone. I have her memory. I always will. But I won’t give up everything for a memory and what I want to have is you. Lexa is in my heart, but so are you in every way.”

“I’m in love with you,” he blurts. It’s self-defense in its purest form. Yes, he wants to her know, but right now it’s a last appeal to protect himself, in case she’s not sure.

And then she smiles.

It is the loveliest thing he’s seen in far too long, and the tight clutch of fear that held his heart eases.

“I’m love you, too,” she whispers, almost shy as if he hadn’t just said the same. A foreign joy blooms in him. “It’s something I’ve wondered about for a long time, but I only realized just how much about a month ago, when I realized that I could have the forgiveness of everyone in Arkadia, but that all I wanted was yours. That I was so lonely without you.”

He can’t help it. He starts crying. Even as he pulls her roughly back to him, kisses her with all of the love he can muster, the tears fall down his cheeks. Purifying and warm, they drop onto her wrists as she continues to hold his face. But she’d never hold it against him, not Clarke. With her, he can be vulnerable because together they form a steady state of strength.

She moves to kiss his eyelids and his cheeks, peppering his face with gentleness while she pushes at his knees a little. Once he’s straightened his legs a little, she climbs into his lap so she can straddle him. As the fervor of their kisses increase and her kiss finds his mouth, she moans gladly and rocks her hips into his. His blood rushes for her once more.

While they continue to kiss and grind against each other, he pushes at her jacket until she sheds it, chucking it to the side somewhere. He cracks his eyes open to make sure it’s not landed in the fire before allowing them to fall shut again as his hands move impatiently to her t-shirt, tugging it up and over her.

Her unclasped bra has ridden up, so the soft undersides of her breasts are visible. His cock twitches at the sight of her and his heart races. He slides his hands up the warmth of her arms. When he merely curls his fingertips over the straps and begins kissing her wetly again, she makes a muffled sound of impatience, which makes him smile against her lips.

She shimmies her shoulders, causing the bra straps and his hands to fall to her bent elbows. Taking over from there, he watches with hooded eyes as he pulls the garment all the way off of her, dropping it out of his eye line.

When he runs his hands up to cup her breasts, to relish their weight in his hands, she loses some modicum of patience. With a huff, she leans more fully into him, rocking her hips against his again as she releases him to unsnap her own jeans and set to work divesting him of his coat and shirt.

Once they’re both topless, he winds his arms back around her, eager to feel her skin against his. He groans, thrilled with the warmth and softness of her. If her moan and the twitch of her hips are anything to go by, she agrees.

Eventually, he returns his hands to her breasts, pinching at her tight nipples while he buries his face in her neck, nipping at her earlobe. Heavy, her head falls back and he moves his lips down into the valley of her chest, licking at the soft, unblemished skin over her sternum.

When she impatiently wiggles against him, he laughs, his voice pitched to its lowest possible decibel. “You’re so pushy,” he mumbles even as he moves his mouth to her right breast, suckling a small mark onto the side of it before he lays his tongue over her peaked nipple. At the contact, she jerks more forcefully against him. He swears when she shoves her hand down her pants, the back of it pushing against his aching cock.

“Please, Bellamy,” she whispers, her free hand clutching painfully on his bicep while she rides down on her hand, onto him. He moves between her breasts, sucking and biting at her nipples and caressing the other one with his hands.

Eventually, he worries he might come from this alone, so he grips her hips to stop their movement, stills the circling of her hand against her center for his own sanity. He pulls back from her breast, her right nipple freeing from his lips with a pop.

He returns his face to her neck to recapture his breath, and she seems content to wrap him in her arms and press sweet kisses to his cheek and temple.

“This is great and all,” she whispers into his ear. “But don’t think you being all romantic and tender will get you out of fucking me.”

He huffs a laugh against her skin. “Trust me. I have no plans to stop.”

Her, “So long as we’re clear—” ends in a surprised gasp when he tightens his hold on her and moves up onto his knees.

Clumsily, not wanting to relinquish his grip, he gropes around and grabs his jacket from behind him, which he then somehow manages to spread out somewhat neatly on the ground. Only then does he lower her down on to it.

She smiles at him and reaches up to rub his side as he pushes her back slightly so he can stretch to grab her shed clothing. He then crawls forward over her, and she gladly lies all the way down, head now resting on her shirt and jacket. He stays there for a moment, smiling back at her, his hands bracketing her head while she sweeps her hands up and down from his hips to his ribs.

“Bellamy,” she whispers, her eyes shining.

“Yeah?”

“This’ll work a lot better without pants on.” And then she darts her hand under the waistband of his pants and underwear, pinching his ass.

Even as he yelps, he also laughs, and he dives down to kiss her hotly for several seconds. Finally, though, he rears back on his haunches and sets to work divesting her of her remaining clothing. The sensation of his knuckles rasping down the length of her legs is enough to make his cock ache all the more, and she moans along with him.  He’s not sure where her pants and underwear are, and he fears one of her shoes may have gone over the wall in his haste to get her naked. But she doesn’t appear to care, and he is too soon transfixed by the sight of her spread out before him.

She keeps her legs bent on either side of his knees, and they, along with the fire, make a play of shadow and light over the curls at the juncture of her thighs.

“Fuck,” he whispers, reaching down to undo the button of his pants and lower the zip, anything to relieve the pressure on his swelling cock. He adjusts the waistband of his boxers so the bulbous head is free, pressed against his belly. He already feels drops of pre-come rapidly cooling in the air, but they do nothing to stay his passion.

When he looks up to her face, Clarke is staring at his cockhead, breathing heavily, eyes glinting avariciously. It’s all he can do not to shove his clothes the rest of the way off and bury himself in her wet heat.

Instead, he ducks his head to kiss her knee, her leg. As he leans forward to trace his tongue over the seam where her right leg joins her torso, he finally reaches down to part her folds, to touch her molten heat.

“Oh, god,” she sighs, back arching when he starts rubbing at her clit. Her hips soon begin rocking and swaying in time with the circles he traces on her, and she throws and arm over her face so just her mouth, dropped open in gasping breaths, is visible.

When he slides one, then two fingers inside her, twisting and crooking them just so even as he continues to rock the heel of his hand against her swollen clitoris, her orgasm takes them both by surprise. She cries out, continuing to rock against his hand as she rides it out, and he swears he’s robbed of breath for the duration of it.

Once she settles back, she paws ineffectually at his hand to stop its movement. When she notices him about to lean forward to put his mouth on her next, she shakes her head rapidly. Though she continues to pant, she manages to stutter, “No. Not now. I need you. I need you in me.”

“But—”

“Please?” she cajoles. “Next time.”

Sighing, he sits back and sets to undoing the laces on his boots. “Fine. I guess I’ve always wanted to eat you out while you were wearing nothing but my coat, anyway.”

Clarke grins, watching him as he jumps to his feet to pull off his pants and boxers.  “I like that goal. We’ll make sure you achieve it.”

He spreads the jeans out on the ground somewhat before straightening. “Glad to have your support,” he says, reaching down to palm his cock, to give it a few, firm pulls while he stares at her.

His control slipping, he drops back down to his knees and slides his arms under her shoulders. Lifting her up gently, he settles cross-legged onto his pants, pulling her so she once again straddles him. They both grunt at the contact between her wetness and his cock. Happily, she curls around him while their lips meet for yet another passionate kiss.

She must lose patience, though, because soon she reaches between them to grasp his cock in her small hand and begins stroking him.

“Clarke,” he gasps, hips jerking with her every move.

Taking pity on him, she curls her legs under her so she can rise up enough to position him at her entrance. They stare at each other while she sinks down on him, pulsing her hips until he’s fully seated in her. And then she whimpers and curls her legs back around him and begins riding him in earnest.

It’s everything he’s wanted for so long, and he’s nearly overwhelmed by each sensation. The feel of her dripping walls clenching around him with each rise and fall of her hips, the sounds of his cock moving in her and their pelvises meeting, the smell of their sex, and the sight of her over him, her hands gripping his shoulders tighter for leverage as she movers faster and harder.

Her mouth drops open and her back arches. Only his arms keep her from falling back, and he can’t resist ducking his head to press wet almost-kisses to her sternum, her breasts. When he nips at the slight protrusion of her rib beneath one breast, she tightens hard around him and whimpers, her brow furrowed at everything coursing through her.

He groans when she moves her hand down between them to rub small circles on her clit. He stares at the movement of her fingers, only slightly obscuring where his cock is moving in and out of her. When she finally comes, spasming and pulsing around him, he kisses her, feeling the tightness in her jaw where her hard orgasm has prevented sound from escaping.

She continues to move over him even as she appears to go boneless, and he feels that burning in his lower back, the tightening in his balls that tells him that he’s so close to coming.

With a groan, he tightens his arms around her once more and lunges forward until she’s back on the ground beneath him. He holds one leg where it was over his hip and loops his elbow under the knee of her other, so she is wound around him perfectly.  His hips drive into hers harder and harder while she whispers nonsensical words of encouragement into his ear, interspersed with moans.

When he comes, it nearly tackles him with its strength, and he’s left weak and winded as his cock pulses its release inside of her. He tries to catch himself on his elbows but is only partially successful. His fears that he might be crushing her are quieted when she pokes at his one bracing arm until it gives out and he comes to rest fully on top of her.

“I’m squishing you,” he whispers, weakly nuzzling her jaw.

“Mmm, you’re fine for now.” She kisses his hair, her quick breaths rustling his curls.

Eventually, though, he does move off her, reluctantly pulling out of her wet heat even though he’s completely spent for the time being. The cold air hits their sweat-slicked fronts and they both growl in annoyance. The long-ignored fire is now close to embers, and its heat has dimmed considerably.

Bellamy woozily gets to his feet before offering a hand to help Clark stagger to hers. They lean drunkenly against each other, trying to ward off the chill.

Clarke rises up onto her tiptoes and kisses his cheek. “I guess we should move into the ship now,” she mumbles, though her voice is reluctant.

“I guess,” he agrees, not wanting the moment to end. Eventually, though, a frigid breeze kicks up and they have no choice but to pull away from each other entirely.

They try to retrieve what clothes they can, though Clarke cannot find her bra in the dark, or the shoe that Bellamy doesn’t mention might be stuck in a tree behind them.

“I’ll find them tomorrow,” she decides, waving vaguely at the forest around them. Together, they stumble around the ship and up its ramp. They find a clean-ish pile of blankets on the upper floor and drop gracelessly onto them, curling around each other. They fall asleep without much more than a few affectionate whispers and lips brushing over lips with wishes of good night.

When they emerge the next morning, the sun is already up, and frost has melted to dew on the underbrush.

Clarke and Bellamy stand on the ramp of the dropship, considering a once-familiar home to them. While it felt foreign the night before, it now has something new and sweet to it, and Bellamy has to fight down a small stab of sadness at leaving it. They made it theirs again last night, in a completely new way.

But, he reminds himself, it’s not like he’s going back to the way things were before he and Clarke arrived here the night before. They’ll go back together, and they’ll continue to be a team. Partners in every sense of the word.

Clarke pulls him from his thoughts with a gusty sigh. She’s staring down at her one, shoeless foot, grimacing.

“About that,” he begins.

She arches an eyebrow at him. “Did you think I didn’t notice you throwing it somewhere last night?”

“I just wondered if my incredible skills in the bedroom arts might have made you forget. Don’t worry. If we can’t find it, I will carry you back to camp.”

She snorts. “Romantic of you. Totally overestimating your strength, underestimating my weight, and all around impractical, but very romantic.” She pulls him down to kiss him for a minute before giving him a bracing pat on his shoulder. “But you can give me a piggyback ride while we look for it.”

Wit a grin, he turns and crouches, waiting for her to jump on. When she does, he straightens, letting his hands smooth teasingly over her ass as he hoists her up more securely. She bites his shoulder in retaliation.

Once they’ve located her wayward bra and shoe (and after Bellamy has managed to distract Clarke with a brief make-out session while she puts said bra back on), they walk back around the ship, hands clasped tightly.

As they move away, he notices something in the scorched earth beneath their feet: tiny green sprouts of grass, a few saplings, and even a couple of wild flowers are peeking up through the blackened dirt.

New growth after Earth’s baptism by Clarke’s fire.

Somehow, Bellamy can’t help but see the same thing in himself.


End file.
